


Crimes & Clothes

by Yahong



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: AU, COME ON ELEMENTARY FANDOM, Sherlock works for Joan, THERE WAS NO GINA CORTES CHARACTER TAG, and some emotions too, different power dynamics!, major fluff, still clueless about tagging on AO3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahong/pseuds/Yahong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets based on a Tumblr tag by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity">sanguinity</a>: <a href="http://sanguinarysanguinity.tumblr.com/post/82286710197/amindamazed-8-piece-gifset-of-sherlock">Joan has a crime-solving valet</a>.</p><p>Latest:<br/>Chapter 7: Emily, a dog & Cortes all meet Joan in a park.<br/>Chapter 8: Joan & Shinwell accidentally co-adopt a dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some lines taken directly from the show.

“Good morning! Repast. Couture.” Joan Watson’s door blasted open.

As she cracked apart her eyelids, the sunlight greeted her almost as effervescently as her live-in valet. She groaned and threw a hand over her eyes.

“That was _not_ in response to my selections for you, I hope,” said Sherlock. He placed the breakfast tray and folded stack of clothes side-by-side on the end of the bed and bounced back up, rocking on his heels. “It’s currently 9 o’clock. We’re due at Canon Ebersole downtown headquarters in twenty minutes, so come on, get dressed.”

“Canon Ebersole?” Joan struggled to a sitting position and leaned forward to look over this morning’s food and fashion choices. “I thought they banned you from their buildings.” Hmm… Sherlock still had a ways to go in achieving her ideal style. The scarf was passable, though.

“Yes, but that was before I rooted out their murderous secretary and proved my deductions correct.” Sherlock impatiently waved at the food, then pivoted and made for the door. “If you don’t recall,” he said over his shoulder, “their CIO resigned in the aftermath, and since he was the instigator of the ban, the headquarters of that grand capitalist ant colony are once again open to us.”

“Oh.” Joan slid off the bed reluctantly and walked around to pick out the scarf from the pile. She held it up and considered it.

“You know, Watson,” said Sherlock, and she turned halfway to see him halted in the doorway. “I do wish you’d pay more attention to the repercussions of the cases we take on.”

She turned back to her clothes and her food and scooped them up. “Firstly, _we_ don’t take them on. You do. Second: why?”

“Because then you wouldn’t be making pointless statements like ‘I thought they banned you from their buildings’!” Sherlock declared, and strode from the room.

Joan waited until he was down the stairs, then moved to her closet and started putting away clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

“You realize,” Joan said, “that I don’t pay you to solve crimes.”

“No, of course not,” said Sherlock. “The invaluable training and exposure to my methods that I provide you is free, given out of the magnanimity of my heart.”

Joan rolled her eyes.

Beside them, Detective Marcus Bell let out a cough. “Well, let me know what your heart thinks about this,” he said, motioning to the crime scene on the bathroom floor before them.

“Hmm,” said Sherlock. He lowered himself to the floor and kicked his feet out behind him to stretch out on his front.

A detective passing behind him made a sound of surprise and hopped quickly over Sherlock’s feet. She looked down, then raised an eyebrow in Marcus’s direction. Marcus bit his tongue and shrugged.

Oblivious, Sherlock inched forward until his nose was centimetres from a stain. He hovered there for a few minutes; his arms began to tremble.

Joan shifted to better look at him. “You okay?”

“You realize I’m only taxing myself like this because of you,” he said, without preamble and without changing position.

“Excuse me?”

“Since you forbade me to taste any more evidence, I’m forced to rely on my olfactory senses instead in cases like this.” Sherlock sniffed for emphasis.

Joan rolled her eyes. “Right, because the last time you ate a piece of evidence, you were out with food poisoning for a week.”

“As I told you then, you may consider it my use of this year’s sick leave.” He lowered himself flat to the ground and stretched his arms out to the side.

“And as I told you, I still don’t want my live-in valet to be laid low for a week, sick leave or not.”

Sherlock made a flapping motion with one hand against the floor. “You know how I _love_ our arguments, Watson, but I currently require all of my attention to take in this scene, especially since you’ve robbed me of the use of one of my senses.”

Joan looked to the ceiling again, turned her back and paced away, careful to keep clear of the substances on the floor. Marcus shot her a sympathetic look. After glancing at Sherlock, he fell into step beside her.

“I hope he didn’t drag you away from anything important,” he said in an apologetic undertone.

“No,” she muttered back, “he made sure to rearrange all of my new-client appointments for tomorrow, back-to-back.”

Marcus made a face. “Sorry, I know it’s partially my fault for calling him in.”

“It’s all right,” she said, and managed a smile for him. “I can stand meeting new clients for a few straight hours if it helps you solve this.” She glanced around.

“Thanks. Appreciate it.” Marcus followed her gaze, and for a while they watched Sherlock do occasional miniature sideways push-ups to manoeuvre himself into various positions.

A thought occurred to her. “Oh, Marcus, I’ve been meaning to tell you—I still have your bulletproof vest.”

Marcus looked round. “My vest?” He furrowed his brow.

She smiled sheepishly. “From the time we spoke with Marko Zubkov, you remember?”

“Right, yeah.” He tilted his head. “You still got it?”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to return it, but, uh, you know, we haven’t come by the station recently and things have been a bit busy,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, you’ll get it within the week, I promise.”

“Hey, no rush,” he said. “The precinct isn’t short or anything.”

Sherlock thumped down on his stomach. His derisive snort was poorly disguised, intentionally, as an exhale of air.

Joan gave him a look, which was wasted when he continued to stare at the ground. “Sherlock…”

“You heard the man, they aren’t lacking in such vests at all,” he said in a miffed tone.

“I don’t think that’s a good reason to keep one for ourselves.”

“Hang on—why does he want to keep it?” Marcus asked, putting a hand on his hip.

“He… doesn’t want to keep it for himself,” Joan said. “He wants to use it in my wardrobe.”

Lifting his brows, Marcus looked round at Sherlock, then nodded slowly. “Huh.”

“But of course, I’ll have it back to you soon,” she hastened to say.

He shrugged. “Like I said, no rush.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “’Sides, I can see why he’d want to stick it on you. You make it work.”

Joan smiled.

Sherlock chose that moment to jump to his feet. “Well, perhaps you do need it back soon,” he said to Marcus. “Wouldn’t want to lose your ‘bulletproof’ status, would you?”

“Hey,” said Marcus, “I just said—”

“Yes, I heard you, and I hope you’re quite finished.” Sherlock waved Joan over impatiently. “Come on.”

Joan gave Marcus a quick smile before stepping around a few evidence identification markers and moving to Sherlock’s side.

Marcus spread his hands, palms up questioningly. “What, are you the only one allowed to compliment Joan’s clothes?”

Sherlock stepped forward between him and Joan. “When _you_ are a personal valet,” he said precisely, “you will be at liberty to comment on any and all of your clients’ outfits. As it were...” He motioned with his hand, as if that explained all.

“Right.” Marcus tucked his hands into his armpits and regarded Sherlock. “So. Are you mad ‘cause I commented, or ‘cause I complimented her?”

That, of all things, stumped Sherlock. He opened his mouth, then left it open for one beat. Two.

Joan gripped his shoulder. “Sherlock? Please don’t tell me you’re getting abdominal cramp symptoms.”

He shook himself out of his thoughts. “No—of course not. Unless you mean to tell me that food poisoning can occur via olfaction.” With that sentiment, he pulled free and strode from the bathroom.

Joan watched him go, then turned back to Marcus. “I should probably go with him, I think he might’ve eaten something when I wasn’t looking. See you Tuesday? I’ll bring the vest.”

He was about to reply when Sherlock’s holler from outside cut in. “Won’t be necessary, we’ll stop at the brownstone on the way to the precinct!”

Marcus and Joan looked at each other. He smiled at her, eyes creasing. “I’ll see you there; I gotta catch up with the rest of my unit.”

“Sure. Thanks, Marcus.” She smiled back and walked out after Sherlock. _If he gets sick in the next five days,_ she thought to herself, _he’s not getting paid leave_.


	3. Chapter 3

There were a lot more people at the American Museum of Natural History than Joan had expected, given that the NYPD, with Sherlock's help, had solved a murder in its upper gallery only yesterday.

"Maybe we should go get tickets for the temporary butterfly exhibit first," she said to Sherlock over the noise.

"No, there's no need," he said as he strode through the main foyer toward a back door. "It'll be open for another two hours and my calculated trajectory of our path through this museum will lead us to the exhibit with plenty of time."

Joan snagged a map from the info desk and hurried after him, wishing she'd picked lower-heeled shoes. "Well, I hope you're right."

"My parasitologist contact has informed me that they've extended the duration of the entomology gallery here," Sherlock said over his shoulder. He ducked through the door and visibly relaxed; they had passed into a quieter passage between the museum shop and the theatre. "We should dedicate the majority of our time to it."

"The entomology exhibit that you took Kitty to see," Joan noted, peering at her map.

"Yes, well, it was my attempt to..." He cycled his hand through the air. "To engage her in a recreational outing in a supplementarily educational setting."

She looked up. "And to apologize for keeping her from seeing that boy from the coffeeshop?" she suggested.

Sherlock did a shoulder movement that was half-shrug, half-grimace.

Joan smiled to herself and looked back down to her map. "Must've been a good outing."

"It was a good exhibit," he said.

It was, in fact. Joan meandered slowly enough through each display that Sherlock had thrice offered to teach her the finer points of speed-reading by the time they reached the end of the first hall.

"Doesn't it make the exhibit less fun if you just whiz through it all?" she asked. She stopped to peer into a dung beetle's glass terrarium. _Scarabaeus_ _satyrus_ , stated the info-plaque. "My God, these dung beetles can use the Milky Way to navigate..."

"I could teach you how to do that as well," Sherlock said.

"Hm, tempting, but I don't think my eyesight's good enough." She moved onto the next display.

He bobbed on his feet once before moving around to stand next to her. "The photopollution present in this city degrades natural light levels too much to put the practise into efficient use anyway." He glanced at the exhibit she was looking at. "To answer your previous question -- the purpose of an exhibit such as this one is to inform. Speed-reading does not detract from attaining that purpose."

"I hope you didn't say that to Kitty," she said, slanting a look at him. "Doesn't sound too 'recreational' to me."

Sherlock twisted his mouth for a moment. "I acknowledge," he said, "that enjoyment and information are not mutually exclusive, as long as one doesn't allow the former to devolve into frivolity and thus obscure the latter."

"Generous of you." She let her face relax into a smile, stepped around him and continued walking.

He accompanied her slow pace in silence for the next few displays until halfway through the second hall. Finally, he said, "It's why I suggested this outing for you."

"Hm?" Joan leaned in to look at a chart of honeybees. "What is why?"

"The lack of mutual exclusivity."

She looked round at him, brows furrowed.

He shook his head quickly and looked away. "Never mind."

Joan regarded him. She thought he was trying to say, maybe, in his convoluted way, that he wanted her to enjoy herself.

* * *

 When they reached the butterfly exhibit, tickets for the day were sold out.

"Oh." Joan turned away from the ticket counter, trying not to be too disappointed.

As she wandered over and slumped down on a bench, Sherlock remained at the counter for a while longer. She watched him gesticulate at the sales person. Then he made his way back to her.

He sat down beside her and stared straight ahead.

"There were four different school groups in attendance today," he said stiffly. "They booked fifty-five percent of the available tickets. The likelihood of such an occurence, taking into account the proximity of middle and high schools in the area and the propensity of each institution to embark on field trips, puts its probability at nigh -"

"Sherlock," Joan said.

He glanced at her without moving his head, then took a breath. "It was my surety in my own calculations which led to this."

"It's okay."

He looked down. "I wanted you to -"

"I did," she said. "I have."

At that, he turned fully to look at her. "You don't know what I was going to say," he said, slowly, skeptically.

She met his gaze. "I did have fun," she said. "I have enjoyed myself."

He opened his mouth. A beat late, he said, "Well - I suppose it's for the best, anyway. The butterfly pavilion is teeming with assorted exposed flora and fauna that could soil your garments."

She smiled despite herself. "Priorities, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering that this is major fluff, I realize that writing "...enjoyment and information are not mutually exclusive, as long as one doesn't allow the former to devolve into frivolity and thus obscure the latter" is a bit ironic, LOL.


	4. Chapter 4

Joan emerged from the kitchen with a pot of coffee, headed for the library and set it in front of Alfredo. “Sorry, I couldn’t reach him either,” she apologized. “It might be a while before he gets back.”

Alfredo tipped his head sideways, a version of a shrug. “I’ve got my afternoon free,” he said, and poured a mug.

“Well, you’re welcome to wait here however long it takes him,” she said.

He nodded. Putting down the coffee pot, he pushed the full mug toward her.

“Oh—thank you.” She sipped. “I take it it’s been a while since Sherlock last went to a meeting?” she said, sitting across from him.

“Yeah, you could say that.” Alfredo leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Sometimes he needs that extra push, so…” He spread his hands. “Here I am.”

Joan was trying to figure out how to tell him how much she appreciated what he did for her valet when the doorbell rang.

“Hey,” said Teddy. “Sherlock here?”

“Oh, hi, Teddy,” she said. “No, he’s not.”

“You know when he’ll be back?”

“No, I don’t… is it urgent?”

He scowled. “He owes me about a hundred bucks in consultin’ fees, so yeah.”

“A hundred—” Joan decided she didn’t want to know what Sherlock paid Teddy to do. “I can give him a message, if you want.”

“Nah, I’ll wait for him. He can’t hide from me that way.” He looked down the hall, then back up at her.

With an internal sigh, she stepped back to let him in. “Sure.”

Teddy passed through the hallway and came to a dead stop.

Joan halted herself behind him. “Teddy?”

At the same time, Alfredo’s voice came from the library. “You!”

“Alfredo?” She pushed past a frozen Teddy to see Alfredo striding into the hall.

He came to a stop in front of her. “You know this kid?” He raised his brows. Teddy bristled at the last word.

“Uh, Sherlock does—” She twisted to look at Teddy as he slowly backed up behind her, then back to Alfredo. “What’s going on?”

“This kid yanked my wallet in Union Square last week,” Alfredo accused, crossing his arms.

Joan swivelled toward Teddy once more. “Teddy, is that true?” she asked.

He pressed against the wall, half-sullen, half-pouting. “So what?”

“You promised Sherlock you’d stop.” She pinned him with a stare.

“Yeah, like he promised me all those fees,” he retorted.

“Okay, do you have Alfredo’s wallet or not?”

Reluctantly, Teddy fished into his old knapsack and retrieved a wallet. “Not like there was anything real good in yours anyway,” he said, and tossed it.

Joan ducked, and Alfredo caught it. “Only the keys to a half-million dollar car,” he shot back. He put it away, turned and disappeared back into the library.

Letting out her breath, Joan looked at Teddy.

“He was joking, right?” he asked her.

“Do you know how to drive?” she asked in return.

“Hey, ‘course I know how to drive!”

Before she could inquire further as to the legality of his driving, the bell rang again.

“Ms. Hudson!” Joan smiled and opened the door wide. “I forgot you were coming today, I’m glad to see you.”

“Thanks, you too.” Ms. Hudson stepped inside and caught sight of Teddy. "Are you having guests over? I can come to clean later if you’d like.”

“Oh, no. Sherlock’s not even at home, actually.” Joan glanced round. “I think you might as well go ahead and start cleaning. I haven’t seen him for a while, so I really have no idea when he’ll be back.” She followed Ms. Hudson into the library. “He wasn’t even here this morning.”

“So that’s why your outfit looks okay today,” Teddy said, perching on the red sofa.

Joan looked round at him.

He gestured vaguely at her. “Whenever Sherlock picks your clothes, it always looks weird.”

“Really?” She hadn’t thought Teddy had ever paid much attention to her at all.

“He does tend to go for more eclectic looks,” said Ms. Hudson. “I think you always look lovely, though.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, beaming. A compliment from a woman as classy as Ms. Hudson meant a lot. To Teddy, Joan added, “I think I’ll take that as a compliment to my own personal style.”

He shrugged, then went for the coffee pot.

* * *

When Sherlock came home an hour later, the library was full of coffee and laughter.

He turned into the room and took in the four personages in one glance. Then he zeroed in on Joan.

She looked up, feeling his gaze. “Sherlock! You’re back.”

“Yes,” he said. “Did you decide to throw a party in my absence?”

“No.” She stood and walked over. “Alfredo’s here to take you to a meeting, Teddy wants a hundred dollars and Ms. Hudson needs you to move your queen bee treatises from the mantle.”

He blinked. “Fine,” he said.

“Also, apparently I have better style than you do,” she said cheerfully. “I should work for myself.”

He stared at her. “No more parties,” he said. “Clearly they’re a negative influence upon your mindset.”

Joan just smiled and went off to refill the coffee pot.


	5. Chapter 5

The boutique manager introduced themself as Ayo. "Girl," they said, "who dresses you?"

Joan smiled. "I dress myself," she said. "Well, I buy my own clothes. But I have a live-in valet."

Ayo tilted their head as they considered this. "A live-in valet," they repeated.

Her smile slipped off. She sometimes—not often, but sometimes—forgot it was an expensive indulgence, a tellingly privileged one. People learned about Sherlock's profession on a need-to-know basis and, like now, when she forgot herself.

She opened her mouth to direct the conversation away, back to questions she needed to ask for the NYPD.

But they said, "You should come work for me," and grinned, teeth dazzling against their dark skin.

Joan breathed out, and allowed herself to smile again.

* * *

"You should _not_ go work for them," Sherlock said loudly in the middle of the precinct.

Two officers looked round from their neighbouring desks.

"Shh," Joan said. "Anyway, that's not important. Ayo mentioned—"

Sherlock stood up, an abrupt movement that sent a few papers to the floor.

She regarded him. "Sherlock. I'm not going to lay you off and go work for Ayo's store."

His gaze darted around, meeting hers for only a moment. "Yes, of course," he said, the words leaning on each other: _yes-of-course_.

He turned, scraping the chair back, and walked to the end of the desk. There he stood, facing away. "Please, continue."

Joan watched him for a few more seconds. Then she turned back to the files on the table. "As I was saying," she said, "they mentioned that our suspect recently began asking for night shifts."

She sat down in the vacated chair and sifted through the papers and notes. Where was that list with the robbery details? "Suspect hasn't been into work since the jeweller's manager's death," she said. That had set off some bells in her mind. "Could be coincidence, but..."

Ah, there. Joan pulled out her glasses and her notepad. Setting the former on her face and the latter beside the detailed notes prepared by Marcus, she began comparing.

"Yeah," she said, sitting up, "Ayo's employee was working up until closing time on all the dates of the robberies at the jeweller's across the street. Like I said, could be coincidence, but... could be more."

Slight movement to her right. "And what connection does your Ayo's subordinate have with the jewellery store manager's diamond smuggling contact?" Sherlock asked.

"That's what I'm looking for," she said.

She glanced up just as he pivoted back around. She held up a stack of papers and offered it to him.

He hesitated only an instant before striding forward and past her, plucking the papers out of her grasp on the way.

They got back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This premise gives Joan's and Sherlock's relationship a very interesting power dynamic, one that results in Sherlock's possessive/protective friend-urges toward Joan taking on a different cast. I'm always interested in how Sherlock feels about Joan, hence the 'I'M your valet!!!' convo again (for possibly the third time in five ficlets, but who's counting? :P).


	6. Chapter 6

It was Baba.

Joan caught the word before it slipped out of her mouth.

Her biological father looked up from his place in line. One hand clenched in the hem of the badly-pilled coat he wore, while the other held on to the shelter-provided paper plate. His gaze went right past her.

Joan swallowed the word back down. He didn't recognize her.

Her father continued to look around, eyes flicking from point to point. She took in his posture, his shoes, his darkly-shadowed jaw. His beard grew in slowly, she knew; its present length meant it'd been...

"'Scuse me," said the person in front of her.

"Oh—I'm sorry," she said, bringing her attention back to her soup pot. She dipped the ladle in and carefully unloaded it on to the plate held out in front of her.

The person shuffled on. Joan took a breath, glanced once more at her father in his place in the line, then exhaled.

When he got to her, Joan said, "Hello."

He didn't look up.

She ladled soup on to his plate. He moved on.

Joan decided she would approach him today.

* * *

"Hi," she said, smiling, and slid into the chair across her father.

He looked up, only briefly, and looked back down.

"Your first time here?" she asked, tucking into her own food.

He ate. After a silence, he said, "I don't know."

Joan couldn't resist looking up at him, to see what his face said. When he looked up as well, she pulled her gaze away immediately. Less eye contact was better.

He lowered his head and began drinking the rest of his soup, swiftly. The bowl clattered to his tray as he jerked his chair back and scrambled upright.

"Is everything all right?" Joan asked. She slid her hands off the table and gripped her knees.

"Gotta go," he said. He turned, shook his head furiously. Then he made for the door.

Joan scooped up his tray on top of hers and walked to the wash station. There she dropped off the trays, eyes following her father's back as he disappeared out the front door of the shelter.

Outside, she didn't have to look far.

Her baba sat cross-legged in the alley just beside the shelter. His whole posture was a cave-in; he sat on his hands.

Joan struggled for a moment, for three moments.

She walked over to him.

Two steps away, she crouched down, grabbed a stray newspaper and sat herself down on it.

"If I stay still," he muttered, "they won't find me."

Joan glanced at his knee. "A good idea," she said, as quietly.

"You need to stay still," he said.

"Okay."

He shot her a sharp look and withdrew it like a knife sheathing.

After half an hour of silence, Joan watched Pam leave the shelter looking around, probably for her. They often left together after their volunteer shift.

Today Joan stayed next to her father, and thought.

* * *

When she entered the brownstone, she realized she was still holding the newspaper.

"Here, Clyde."

She left it, crumpled and balled up for texture and interest (though hopefully not for eating), in his terrarium, and headed for her laundry hamper. It was empty; she leaned over the staircase.

"Sherlock?"

"Down here!"

"Did you take my laundry?"

"Yes, your fabrics are in the machine. Handwashing of your knits will commmence in the morning!"

Joan tilted her head and listened for the rumbling of the laundry machine. She felt the dust from the newspaper and the ground on the seat of her pants, her fingertips.

Then upstairs she went, to her bedroom, heart full. She kept an image of her father in her mind, alongside a half-remembered melody that made her want to hum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Elementary never specifies what type of schizophrenia Joan's biological father experiences, in my AU he lives with paranoid schizophrenia. (Also, I assume they have a laundry machine in the brownstone??)
> 
> Wanted to write a scene that a) featured Joan's father!!!, b) featured Joan's father with Joan but not sad Joan, because having Joan always be sad when with her bio-dad seems to say something shitty about people with schizophrenia, c) had Clyde, d) took place with little dialogue and focused mostly on Joan's internal experiences. The last point resulted in kind of a shift in writing style, so hopefully it works!
> 
> For more on this: <http://restfromthestreets.tumblr.com/post/130389249384>


	7. Chapter 7

“Lord. Of. The. Flies.”

Emily punctuated every syllable with a tap of her large coffee cup against the park bench’s arm. Beside her, Joan smiled.

“You say that every time.”

“That’s ‘cause every time, it’s still true,” Emily said emphatically. She looked round the kid-filled park. “Hey, you’re only smiling because you don’t have to do this every week.”

Joan tilted her head at her friend. “You know you don’t have to volunteer with Devon’s daycare every week, either.”

“I know. I know.” Emily tapped her cup against the bench one last time before her hand went still. “I just… it feels like the least I can do.”

 _The least she could do_. Joan leaned her weight gently against Emily. “You’re doing enough,” she said.

She felt Emily shake her head the slightest. “I just don’t know some days, that’s all. I’m not certain that I am.”

And Joan knew she didn’t have the experience or the place to contradict her. She looked at the park in front of them, the daycare kids scuffling around in the grass.

“Devon looks happy to me,” she observed. An offering. “Looks like he’s doing well.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely enjoying his reign over the other kids,” Emily said, then raised her voice: “Devon! Play nice!”

The redheaded boy let go of the ball he’d been wrestling from another kid, then turned around and began to make a beeline for his mother.

“Um.” Joan shifted to get a better look. “Is that a dog following behind him?”

“Oh my God.” Emily shot to her feet. “Devon? Devon, come here—”

In another instant he was in her arms, while a mutt of a dog stood panting at her feet.

“Put me down, Mummy! I’m playing with the dog.” Devon squirmed in her arms.

“Devon, where did that dog come from?” Emily turned him in her grasp, looking sternly into his face. “You don’t take other people’s things, remember?”

“I didn’t take the dog! She’s not a thing,” he declared. “Put me down.” He waved his hands toward the adoring gaze of the dog.

Joan slid from the bench and crouched carefully beside the dog. “Good pup,” she said softly, and reached out a hand toward the collar.

Its gaze shifted to her. In the next instant, it was on its feet and in her face, nosing at her neck.

“Oof.” She sat back on her heels and braced her hands against several dozen pounds of dog. “Whoa, there.” She moved a hand to scratch its chin and simultaneously try to find an owner tag.

“I was playing with the dog!” Devon protested.

“Okay, okay.” Emily squatted beside her and let him down. “Play _nice_ with the doggy, all right?”

He trotted right up to Joan and the dog and stared at her. “She likes me,” he told her seriously.

Joan smiled at him as her fingers worked along the collar. “That’s good,” she replied. “Let me just find out who she belongs to, ‘kay?”

“’Kay.” Devon put his small hands on to the dog’s back and began what seemed like a vigorous full-body massage.

Finally Joan managed to locate the tags underneath the long fur at the dog’s throat. “Her name is… Shadow,” she said to Emily and Devon. “And her owner is—”

“Excuse me. What are you doing with my dog?”

 _Gina Cortes_.

That was what the tag read.

Joan looked up a sportswear-clad body to the sweaty face of Detective Gina Cortes.

Emily came to her rescue. “Oh, hey, is this dog yours? I’m really sorry about that, Devon here just came up to me with your dog in tow. Devon—let go of the dog.” She scooped up her son again.

“It’s not a problem,” Cortes said evenly, before moving her gaze back to Joan. “Joan Watson. Fancy meeting you here.”

With as much dignity as she could, Joan pulled her hands free of Shadow’s collar and stood. “Detective Cortes.” She worked up a thin smile, but couldn’t immediately think of a rejoinder. She settled for introductions. “This is my friend, Emily. Emily, this is Detective Cortes of the NYPD. I’ve—consulted with her before.”

“Oh, you two have worked together?” Emily transferred Devon to one arm and offered her hand to Cortes. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry again about the dog.”

Cortes’s handshake was as brief as her smile. “Again—not a problem.” To Joan, she said, “It’s been a while.”

Was that a threat or something else? Joan quirked up the edges of her lips again. “Yes, it has.” Honestly, it was hard to think of anything snappy to say when you met the cop-who-possibly-hated-you during her jog while you were petting her dog.

“Watson!”

A shout turned all their heads.

Out of the dense woods in the centre of the park emerged Sherlock. He was running toward them, considerably faster than a jogging pace.

“Sherlock?” Joan stared. “What are you—where did you—”

He slowed down only a few steps before reaching them, snagged Joan by the arm and dragged her away from Emily and Cortes. “Watson, your silk pants are absolutely not made to resist the advances of enzymic canine saliva. I _warned_ you this morning to take extreme precaution during your outing with Emily.” He kneeled down, gusting air, and began dabbing at a miniscule spot of dog drool below her knee that, she was sure, literally no one else would have noticed.

“Sherlock,” Joan said. “Sherlock. I’ll pay for them, don’t worry about it right now. Also, all saliva is enzymic.” She tugged him back to his feet and directed an apologetic wince toward Emily, who was watching with eyebrows raised and the start of a disbelieving smile.

“This must be your arch-rival,” Sherlock said, eyeing Cortes. He was only slightly out of breath still. “Sherlock Holmes. I’m Ms. Watson’s attaché.”

Cortes eyed him in return, then looked back to Watson and lifted her eyebrows as well.

“You’re not—she’s not my arch-rival,” Joan said to Sherlock. And to Cortes, “Sherlock is not an attaché. He’s my valet.”

“Your valet,” Cortes repeated.

Sherlock straightened his shoulders and stared her down. “Indeed. Judging by the high flush on your cheeks, I’ve done my job well, hm?”

A moment of silence while everyone worked through exactly what he was implying.

Then: “Shadow,” Devon said loudly, and wriggled in Emily’s arms again. At Cortes’s feet, the dog perked up.

“Sorry,” Emily apologized to her again. “Devon, that’s not our dog, we can’t play with it, all right?” She stepped to Joan’s side. “Joan, I’m going to return him to the rest of the daycare kids. It’s fine if you need to head back with Sherlock, it’s about the end of my shift anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Joan asked. Then a thought struck her, and she turned to Sherlock. “What were you doing in the woods there, anyway?”

“When you told me the location of Emily’s daycare’s outing today, it brought to mind a recent call on the scanner that had captured my attention. Ah—” He glanced from her to Cortes. “Perhaps we can discuss it later.”

“All right. Why don’t you head home first?” She nudged him away from her side. “I’ll catch up once I see Emily and Devon off.”

“Return within the hour if you want to visit the morgue with me,” he said, and turned to leave. Almost immediately he turned back around. “Don’t walk through any brackish water!”

“You know, I normally try to avoid crossing lakes on foot!” she shot back.

He made an incomprehensible hand gesture, then strode off in the general direction of home.

“So.” Joan took a breath and looked at Cortes and Emily. “Shall we?” she said to the latter.

“Yes.” Emily shifted Devon around and faced Cortes. “It was nice to meet you,” she said, smile uncertain.

“You too,” said Cortes, whose own smile likely did nothing to help Emily’s uncertainty. “Take care, Joan.”

“You too, Detective Cortes,” Joan replied coolly, and turned her back on her. She and Emily started back to the rest of the kids.

“So…” Emily said.

Joan shook her head. “I know, Em. Don’t start.”

“Do you know how weird your life is?” There was a clear laugh in Emily’s voice.

“It’s just the people I know,” Joan said. “Not me.”

“I dunno, Joanie… no hot cops ever wanted to date me.”

“What? There is no hot cop wanting to date me!”

“Keep your voice down, she might hear you.”

Oblivious to the conversation, Devon ignored his mother's best friend's smack to her arm and shifted to peer over her shoulder. "Shadow?"

Behind them, an answering bark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emily's a single mom and a journalist, right? HM LOOK CHARACTER DEPTH. (...Yes, I'm bitter about this: <http://liunaticfringe.tumblr.com/post/141733402940/breaking-news-kitty-returning>) Also, in this dynamic, Sherlock wildly claiming different roles to Joan is a good equivalent to Joan constantly being named bodyguard/valet/etc. in S1, yes? Yessss. ^__^ ALSO, can I go ahead and mark this fic as F/F.........? :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and Shinwell accidentally co-adopt a dog.

Joan and Shinwell were, as of a Sunday, co-raising a dog.

He’d been on his way out one Saturday, after a much shorter cup of tea than Joan had hoped for. The door hadn’t been closed for half a minute before it reopened and Shinwell’s familiar footsteps crossed the threshold.

“Shinwell?” She scaled the kitchen steps swiftly and turned to see—

“Hey. This guy’s been hanging around your stoop.” Shinwell gently jiggled the dog he had wedged under one arm. “Wanted to see if you wanted to do something about it?”

“Oh.” Joan had screeched to a halt upon sight of the tableau; she began walking again, warily. How was he carrying that dog? (And with one arm?) “Um.”

“I would’ve left it alone, except this is the sixth time I’ve seen it right under your stairs,” he added.

“Of course,” Joan said quickly, “I appreciate it. It’s just—we don’t even get raccoons. I’m not sure…”

She halted a few steps away and stared. The dog was larger than its head appeared; it didn’t struggle within Shinwell’s grasp, simply breathed heavily and watched her with beady eyes.

Joan glanced up at Shinwell, who was looking at her expectantly. All of a sudden the entire picture and its overwhelming adorableness hit her; she pivoted sharply away and coughed, four times.

“Joan?”

“I’m sorry,” she managed, waving a hand at her face to buy time. “Yes. The dog.” She straightened and turned back to him, her facial muscles under rigid control. “Okay. We should probably take it to a shelter or rescue, right?”

“Yeah. You got a cage for it?”

“Shoot, no.” And the subway required animals to be enclosed. “Let me call around and see if any of my friends can lend a car or a carrier.” She started toward the media room, then turned back. “Do you have anywhere to be? You can leave it with—”

“Nah,” he said. “But—”

“Great, then take a seat,” Joan said quickly, before he could come up with a reason to leave. “Oh, don’t worry about the furniture, Ms. Hudson’s coming in tomorrow anyway.”

“Not looking to give your cleaning lady more work,” said Shinwell, and carefully seated himself on the ottoman.

Joan grabbed her phone and, dialing Emily’s number, wandered back toward the living room. She stopped once again on the threshold between rooms, just staring at Shinwell. On the ottoman. Peering intently at the dog under his arm.

“Uh, you can put it down, none of my important client files are out,” she said, to snap herself out of it.

Shinwell glanced up. “If you say so.” He returned his attention to the dog and slowly lowered it to the floor, keeping one hand wrapped around its scruff. “Sit.”

Though he hadn’t said it seriously, the dog sat. It pressed back against the ottoman, tail tucked in tight, and watched Joan.

Fortunately, Emily picked up at that moment before Joan could expire of cuteness. “Hey, Joan?”  
“Emily!” She turned away and forced herself to focus. “Hey, do you still have that dog carrier from the rescue?”

“The carrier? No, I returned it after the walkathon.” Emily sounded bemused. “What do you need a carrier for?”

“There’s a dog hanging around my front door, I want to get it to a shelter.”

“What?” The bemusement swiftly transformed into amusement. “You? Want to help rescue an animal?”

“What, you think I’m that coldhearted?” Joan said, defensively, because she knew what Emily was going to bring up next.

“Hm, who dumped the cat they’d agreed to babysit for an ex over reading week at my doorstep after two days?”

“It was shedding and my nose was sensitive—”

“And who got their shifts changed for two weeks while therapy dogs were visiting the children’s wing at St. Joseph’s?”

“Okay, obviously you don’t have anything helpful for me, so I’m going to hang up now.”

“Try your friend Gina, you were really good with her dog!” Em said gleefully just as Joan hung up.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, and put the phone down on the table with emphasis.

Then she turned and came face-to-face with the dog.

Well, she came face-to-face with Shinwell, who was struggling to restrain the dog as it almost completed the path to her feet. “Oh—”

“Sorry,” Shinwell said with some exertion. Finally, he managed to scoop up the dog by its belly and lift it off the ground.

“No, no, it’s totally fine.” Anxiously Joan looked around for something in the room that would hold a scruffy mutt of a dog. There was, of course, nothing.

“Do you know where the nearest rescue is?” he asked, returning the dog back to its headlock in his armpit.

“No, but I will Google that right now, hopefully it’s walkable.” She grabbed her phone off the table even as she eyeballed Shinwell and the dog once more. _Adorable_. The dog, that was.

He looked at her questioningly. She quickly ducked her head down and Googled.

*

A day later, Joan was, with some dread, setting up food and water bowls, waist-height doorway barriers and rubber mats over every surface she imagined might need one. Every few minutes she glanced at the clock. She didn’t know what she was dreading more: Sherlock’s reaction to potential enzymic saliva attacks now around every corner of their home, or the actual source of said saliva.

At least Shinwell was going to be coming along with the dog. He’d agreed to walk over today from the shelter and pick the dog up. The people at the shelter had told them that it was a he, likely a terrier mix of some kind, and only welcome for the one night due to their lack of capacity. So now it was going to reside in the brownstone until they could find it a permanent home.

The doorbell rang, which startled her; Shinwell hardly rang the bell anymore. She turned toward the front door and saw him enter, moving almost gingerly.

“Hey, you good there?” She examined his person for the whereabouts of the dog as she approached.

“Hm?” He looked up from the lock-picks he was stuffing in a pocket with one hand; the other was occupied with dog. “Yeah. Oh, I just rang the doorbell to give you warning, you know.” The hand with dog waved it.

Joan blinked. “Oh. Thank you.” Had she seemed that scared of it yesterday?

Shinwell closed the door behind him and took a look around. “You got the place all set up?”

“Yes, feel free to just—put it down wherever.” She drew up a smile.

“’Kay.” He crouched and lowered the dog with a thump on to its feet. Like yesterday, the dog didn’t make a sound; it quailed in place for a few seconds, then began making its way toward Joan, head down, tail down, footfalls stuttering every few beats.

It looked, Joan thought, like it was coming toward her expecting a scolding.

Tentatively she sidestepped a metre or so. The dog paused, head swinging to follow her. She edged backward some more, toward Shinwell; he was still in a crouch, watching them. Eventually, the dog lowered its head once more and made its way to a corner between the one chair left in the room and the barrier to the rest of the house. There it turned in a half-circle and lowered itself almost flat, eyes twitching.

Joan and Shinwell considered it.

She turned to him. “Is that normal?”

“No clue.” He stood up; her gaze moved up with him. “I don’t know much about dogs. Probably less than you, even.”

“Even?” She tilted her head and smiled. “What’re you implying with that?”

He shrugged and directed a small smile at the dog. “Just what I heard from your call yesterday.”

“Well, I know _some_ things about dogs.” Joan stepped to his side and stared at the dog with him. “Like… a terrier mix means that it’s probably good at catching rats.”

After a second, she felt Shinwell look at her.

“And it probably needs to be walked a lot,” she quickly added. There, that was a fact relevant to their situation.

“You have much experience with that?” Shinwell asked. His tone was innocuous; she had a sneaking suspicion he wanted to laugh.

She swung around to face him, hands on her hips. “Do you?”

“Like I said. Don’t know much about dogs.” He shrugged, then glanced up from under his eyelashes and gave a small smirk.

“Then… it’ll be a learning experience for both of us,” she declared, and bore his quiet laugh with dignity.

*

“Should we name it?” Joan wondered aloud later that day.

They were both sweaty and seated, having spent the afternoon restraining the dog from mounting every surface that happened to be not covered with rubber mats. At the moment, it was sleeping in a pile of towels, with late afternoon sun rays draped over its back.

“Name it,” Shinwell repeated, leaning his head back against a lower bookshelf. He propped his arms on his knees and looked toward her. “So you want to keep it?”

“No,” she said quickly, and then was unsure why she felt defensive. “I just… think we shouldn’t keep referring to it as _it_.” She waved her hand vaguely.

He considered for a moment. “Sure. What do you want to name it?”

It was embarrassing, but Joan had already come up with something. “Shén,” she said.

Shinwell cocked his head. “Shén,” he repeated.

“It means ‘deity’ in Chinese,” she said. “Well, one of the words' meanings.”

“As in a god.”

“Yeah. …You know what, never mind.” She pulled her legs in and propped her elbows on her knees as well, raising her hands in front of her face.

Shinwell shrugged. “I’m cool with it.”

“…Okay,” she said. “Great.”

They looked at it in silence for a while longer. Joan had the urge to fill the silence, but not because it was awkward; because she wanted to speak, to talk, to talk to him in particular, to…

“I’m not looking forward to introducing him to Sherlock,” she said, and then wondered why she had to bring him up.

Shinwell huffed a soft chuckle. “This guy’s going to make his job harder, eh?”

“As long as he doesn’t go on rants about saliva again.”

“Just don’t wear silk pants, right?”

Joan turned her head and smiled at him, unreasonably pleased that he remembered the specifics of the situation she’d told him about. “I’m not giving up my silk pants for that.”

He smiled back, eyes crinkling. “Wouldn't want you too.”

She smiled wider and looked away, back to the dog. Shén. Her chest felt pleasantly warm; she slid into a cross-legged position and clasped her hands in her lap, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the men in Joan's life have to have names starting with Sh, apparently. Also, hello, yes, I ship Joan x Shinwell like WHOA.
> 
> I don't think this is particularly well-written... OTL Any feedback or comments would be welcome!


End file.
